


Eugene Onegin

by reginar



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Gen, Humor, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Post-Canon, Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 08:49:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11123850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reginar/pseuds/reginar
Summary: There had been plenty of speculations on what would come after figure skating for the Living Legend, Viktor Nikiforov. The most popular and commonly-agreed upon outcome was that he’d continue coaching, taking up the mantle left by his coach, Yakov Feltsman in Yubileyny Sports Palace. Others enumerated ideal jobs for someone as young as Viktor, barely even in his mid-thirties: modeling, acting, and a few even guessed that he would get into politics. So when Viktor and Yuuri disappeared from figure skating, hardly on any magazines and shows either as models or actors, the last place they’d expect to find the couple was in a coastal city in Wales.





	Eugene Onegin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [renaissance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/renaissance/gifts).



> renaissance prompted me to write "something scandalous with retired figure skater turned lit professor Viktor." So, this is for her.
> 
> Shoutout to unexpectedtrash for helping with the European lit and my friend, Camille, for helping with the setting.

There had been plenty of speculations on what would come after figure skating for the Living Legend, Viktor Nikiforov. The most popular and commonly-agreed upon outcome was that he’d continue coaching, taking up the mantle left by his coach, Yakov Feltsman in Yubileyny Sports Palace; the younger skaters had been excited at the prospect of studying under him, especially now that his husband had retired, too. Others enumerated ideal jobs for someone as young as Viktor, barely even in his mid-thirties: modeling, acting, and a few even guessed that he would get into politics.

Viktor had the spotlight on him ever since his junior days, up until he’d gone up to the senior division, but less so. He had, of course, consistently stood on the podium with less consistent skaters, but, before his five-year golden streak at the age of twenty-two, nobody really knew what he did outside of competitive skating, besides taking care of his poodle. No one knew, besides Yakov and Lilia, that he’d taken on an undergraduate degree in comparative literature, focusing on European literature. So when Viktor and Yuuri disappeared from figure skating, hardly on any magazines and shows either as models or actors, the last place they’d expect to find the couple was in a coastal city in Wales. Viktor had breezed through his master’s and was now on his way to a doctorate, while Yuuri juggled his own study and teaching children in a small ice-skating rink that was a thirty minute walk from their rented home.

Viktor had to admit, the solitude offered by anonymity was comforting. He grazed the halls of the Arts and Letters building of the university and caught less than five turning heads. With each step, he appreciated the high, pointed arches of the windows leading up to the beautiful vaulted ceiling. The place usually looked intimidating and imposing, but the stained glass colored the rough-hewn stone walls and columns so brightly in the morning, which gave his path to his first class a sort of airy and delicate feel that reminded him of stepping onto the ice for a performance.

He pulled one of the double doors to his seven o’clock class, and the chatter of his students died out. He greeted them energetically and a few mumbled the greeting back. They looked dead - perhaps the final requirements were finally catching up to them. Or maybe it was the shadows dancing on their faces, the classroom windows unfortunately facing the west and without natural light.

This was Viktor’s first major class, having been tenured only last year, but he was determined to make it fun, even if the rest of the class wasn’t as enthused about the prospect of European Literature. He approached his desk in front; it was sturdy hardwood, excellent for the thick, hardbound books he carried with him every day. A few eyes followed his movement, trying to be surreptitious about their staring, but Viktor had spent far too much of his life under media scrutiny, he knew how to spot them.

Of course, despite being anonymous, he’d be regarded with some degree of admiration for being beautiful; it would be no use denying it, and he did always make an effort to look good. He’d swept his fringe back slightly with pomade, enough to look neat, but covering a portion of his forehead for a stylishly casual look. The morning had a mild chill that left his cheeks and and the tip of his nose flushed, but the heater within the building allowed him to take off the dark double-breasted coat, which he set at the back of his chair. He wore the burgundy three-piece suit Yuuri had given him to celebrate his tenure, tailored to his exact measurements; it made him look less like a professor and more like the model and athlete he had been throughout the years. Today, he picked a black tie to match his pair of Oxfords. It helped that, even in his retirement, he still jogged along the bay for fitness, reminding him of home.

After settling his leather bag on the floor and the books on his desk, he sat. His watch read that there was still five minutes of grace period. Smiling, he asked, “How are your papers coming along?”

Some nervous laughter. It was a shame they were too intimidated, that they took him far too seriously despite his insistence that they call him _Viktor_ instead of _Professor Nikiforov_ , and that the semester was almost over, with only a few lessons left. Teaching was never fun if his students weren’t having fun either. Fortunately, the lesson was Pushkin’s _Eugene Onegin_ , and he’d been planning to use it to step down from the pedestal that everyone around him, from age fifteen, were dead set on putting him on.

A couple more students shuffled into the room, and they were ready for the discussion.

“ _Eugene Onegin_ today,” he began, going around his desk to sit on it; that always held his students’ attention, which was amusing. “I hope you got your copies. We will first use Nabokov’s, which is, quite frankly, very ugly, but what can we do? We want the exact content - or as exact as translation can get, since all of you are unfortunately not fluent in Russian. After we’re done, we will use Mitchell’s translation to study the form alongside the original text. Isn’t that exciting?”

A few noncommittal hums here and there.

He tapped his index finger to his lips and smiled. “I want to start, really, by talking about myself,” he said, and a few students leaned forward. He hardly spoke about his life, and he knew he curated a little air of mystery; he’d heard as much from his colleagues. “Like Onegin, I grew up in St. Petersburg - and I suppose I would also be called a dandy.” He laughed as he picked up the book from his side, fingering it open on a marked page. “I appreciate the digressions within the text a lot, because I, too, talk like that, as you all know. Ah, but mostly, I love the infamous section in the first canto.”

The students began flipping their books open.

“Stanzas thirty to thirty-four.” And Viktor read the passage out loud, emphasizing certain lines, his accent jumping out at familiar words:

* * *

 

> XXX
> 
> Alas, at various pastimes  
>  I’ve ruined a lot of life!  
>  But if morals did riot suffer,  
>  I’d like balls up to now.  
>  I like furious youth,  
>  the crush, the glitter, and the gladness,  
>  and the considered dresses of the ladies;  
>  _I like their little feet; but then ’tis doubtful_  
>  _that in all Russia you will find_  
>  _three pairs of shapely feminine feet._  
>  _Ah me, I long could not forget_  
>  _two little feet! … Doleful, grown cool,_  
>  _I still remember them, and in my sleep_  
>  _they disturb my heart._  
> 
> XXXI
> 
> So when and where, in what reclusion,  
>  will you forget them, crazy fool?  
>  _Ah, little feet, little feet! Where are you now?_  
>  Where do you trample vernant blooms?  
>  Fostered in Oriental mollitude,  
>  on the Northern sad snow you left no prints:  
>  _you liked the yielding rugs’_  
>  _luxurious contact._  
>  Is it long since I would forget for you  
>  the thirst for fame and praises,  
>  the country of my fathers, and confinement?  
>  The happiness of youthful years has vanished  
>  as on the meadows your light trace.
> 
> XXXII
> 
> Diana’s bosom, Flora’s cheeks,  
>  are charming, dear friends!  
>  _However, the little foot of Terpsichore_  
>  _is for me in senile way more charming._  
>  By prophesying to the gaze  
>  an unpriced recompense,  
>  with token beauty it attracts  
>  the willful swarm of longings.  
>  I’m fond of it, my friend Elvina,  
>  beneath the long napery of tables,  
>  in springtime on the turf of meads,  
>  in winter on the hearth’s cast iron,  
>  on mirror parquet of halls,  
>  by the sea on granite of rocks.  
> 
> XXXIII
> 
> I recollect the sea before a tempest:  
>  _how I envied the waves_  
>  _running in turbulent succession_  
>  _with love to lie down at her feet!_  
>  _How much I longed then with the waves_  
>  _to touch the dear feet with my lips!_  
>  No, never midst the fiery days  
>  of my ebullient youth  
>  did I long with sucli torment  
>  to kiss the lips of young .Armidas,  
>  or the roses of flaming cheeks,  
>  or the breasts full of languishment -  
>  no, never did the surge of passions  
>  thus rive my soul!
> 
> XXXIV
> 
> I have remembrance of another time:  
>  in chary fancies now and then  
>  _I hold the happy stirrup_  
>  _and in my hands I feel a little foot._  
>  _Again imagination seethes,_  
>  _again that touch_  
>  _has tired the blood within my withered heart,_  
>  _again the ache, again the love!_  
>  But ’tis enough extolling haughty ones  
>  with my loquacious lyre:  
>  they are not worth either the passions  
>  or songs by them inspired;  
>  _the words and gaze of these bewitchers_  
>  _are as deceptive as their little feet._

* * *

Closing the book, Viktor scanned the room expectantly, then down to the man in front who appeared to have had a eureka moment. “I knew it,” he whispered.

“Mr. Rosas, do you have something to say?”

The student looked taken aback, but he looked up at Viktor. “I knew it,” he repeated. “You’re that guy.”

Viktor knitted his brow. Ah, of course, here it was. Yuuri had a similar experience in his first year, but that was to be expected, given that he’d participated in the Olympics recently. Viktor didn’t. Still, he did not expect to be recognized as the five-time World champion in a seven o’clock literature class, just after reading Pushkin. Maybe somewhere else, like jogging in the campus with his silver hair glistening under the sun, sweat trickling down neck as he panted, and then someone would come up to him and ask for an autograph. It had certainly happened before in his undergraduate days.

“The guy with the foot thing! The one who kissed his husband’s foot in international television!” the student said in disbelief. “I thought you looked familiar, Viktor, but… holy shit - oh, God, sorry.” He covered his mouth in embarrassment.

The classroom buzzed in what they thought was a quiet discussion.

“Don’t apologize.” Viktor clapped his hand in delight. He hadn’t expected that, but he was absolutely enthralled at this turn of events. “Yes, that was me!” he said proudly. “It was his skates though, but I assure you that I kiss his feet _all_ the time.” He checked his watch. “Let’s save the lesson for next meeting, and let me tell you all about my most wonderful husband, Yuuri!”

**Author's Note:**

> My fic & writing blog is at [reginarfic](https://reginarfic.tumblr.com/). Talk to me, read up on updates on my fics, or send me prompts! >:)


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